Homecoming
by Bons Baisers
Summary: Shikamaru finds comfort in his lovers after a particularly trying mission.  So far, mostly Shika-centric, but we'll see.  Ino-Shika-Cho: don't read it if you don't like it.     Okay... added some Ino.  Maybe I'll round it out with a Chouji chapter.  :P
1. Chapter 1

Not my characters, not my world, just my imagination.

* * *

**Shikamaru**

Shikamaru crouched on the roof, staring at nothing. The lit cigarette in his hand trembled; he was weary and hungry, but wide awake. His natural talent for observation beleaguered him, as every flicker of movement and every whisper of sound in the sleeping village screamed along nerves that had been tautly strung for far too long. He took a slow, deep drag off his cigarette, willing it all to stop, to be dark, to be quiet, for his brain to quit processing the fragrance of the sticky summer night and the breeze that ruffled every hair on his head. A vacuum, without distractions, without the thousand questions his mind composed in response to each new piece of information his extraordinarily alert senses offered it.

The apartment door swung open, and Shikamaru didn't have to look to know that Chouji stood there. This had become almost a ritual in the last couple of years, ever since Shikamaru had started to take all these damned A and S rank missions, one after the other. He came to the roof to spare Ino and Chouji his adrenaline highs and after ten or fifteen minutes, Chouji followed him out, silent, but decidedly present, a solid reminder that Shikamaru had come home. Whatever had happened out there, he was here now, with his bizarre little family. Chouji coming through their door was his cue to begin, for the millionth time, stitching together the slowly unraveling threads of his sanity. Lately it seemed pointless – he never had time enough between missions to tie off all the loose ends.

Chouji moved to his side, somehow graceful and sure-footed despite his bigness, each soundless step belying a minutely controlled, but formidable power. He sat down on the bench behind Shikamaru, straight-backed, somber. His eyes were tired, and Shikamaru remembered suddenly that Chouji had also been assigned an A-rank. He probably hadn't been home long himself.

Shikamaru finished his cigarette and joined Chouji on the bench. For several minutes, they watched the streets below, though nothing but moths and lightning bugs stirred in the lamplight.

"How did your mission go?" he asked finally, not willing to talk about his own botched S-rank just yet.

"Successful." Chouji shrugged, still looking at the village beyond their rooftop. "Pretty run-of-the-mill."

Shikamaru cast a surreptitious glance at his friend. Chouji had never been especially chatty, to Shikamaru's eternal gratification, but on nights like tonight, he could and often did carry a conversation single-handedly. It was out of character for him to be so reticent when Shikamaru needed so badly to hear his voice.

Whether he knew it definitively or acted from instinct, Chouji had long ago figured out that just by talking, he could ease Shikamaru off the adrenaline rush more quickly, and more gently, than nicotine or alcohol. Ino couldn't do it, anymore than Shikamaru could comfort her, when her emotions got the better of her; she always ran to Chouji with the demons she alone couldn't put to rest. When the blood and the grief and the danger of their lives became too overwhelming, Chouji was the light on the porch for both of them, and a promise that the real world – or at least the one that mattered – was inside their apartment, around their table, and in their bed.

Chouji's spicy, warm scent reminded Shikamaru of winter holidays, of cinnamon and deliciously bitter chocolate and fragrant wood crackling in the fireplace. It was a comforting smell, most nights, and he leaned a little closer to the big shinobi. Air whistled through Shikamaru's teeth on a sharp inhale as he caught the metallic tang of blood on the wind. Scanning the tall figure in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he noted the chagrin on Chouji's face as he realized he'd been caught, the careful way he sat and breathed, and the faint bulge of bandages around his ribs.

"What happened?" Shikamaru demanded, disgusted with himself. He'd been irritated with his heightened powers of perception, all the while overlooking something like this. It was ridiculous; it was unforgivable.

"It's minor," Chouji assured him, waving away his concern with his right hand. Chouji was left-handed, and his gestures invariably reflected it.

"How 'minor?'"

"Minor enough that I came home right after Sakura looked at it."

"But how long had you been in the hospital before Sakura 'looked at it?'" Shikamaru was used to these little tricks. Chouji did not generally out-and-out lie. He couldn't – he always sounded guilty. But omitting an unpleasant truth was his specialty.

Chouji winced, defeated. "A few days," he finally allowed. Shikamaru cursed, and reached across Chouji's lap to pull open his robe. Neatly tied white bandages stretched across the wide belly, and beneath his left breast, a fat square bulge marred the perfectly wrapped linen, positioned diagonally across his lower ribs.

"We finished the mission early," Chouji went on, "but were ambushed on the way back. I was able to make it on my own two feet for awhile. Akamaru carried me the rest of the way home." He smiled ruefully. "Poor guy got a couple of really nice steaks out of it, at least."

"What happened?" Shikamaru asked again, through gritted teeth.

"Almost ate a sword," Chouji admitted sheepishly, candid now that the truth was out. "I got lucky and the blade stuck in my ribs."

Shikamaru couldn't contain the shudder that wracked him, and he only barely kept the terrified, furious voice in his head from becoming the voice on his lips. "What about the guy who was holding the sword?" The words sounded dead, flat and mechanical.

"Dead," Chouji replied matter-of-factly, shrugging his right shoulder. "He only managed this because I thought he was already dead and turned my back on him. He threw the blade with the last of his strength." He turned his face up to the sky. "Injured my pride more than anything. I ought to know dead from not dead by now." Unspoken was the body count, and Shikamaru could see the flicker of pain in Chouji's eyes as each treasured and loathed face traversed his memory.

Shikamaru shuddered again. "Chouji…" He didn't know what to say, and he could taste the irony. Chouji would know exactly what to tell someone in his position, and make them feel better about the whole ordeal. The fear and the adrenaline and the shock were wearing on him; his throat was tight and he couldn't quite draw a good breath.

"It's fine," Chouji said calmly, flashing a reassuring smile. "It stung a little, and the ribs are nicked – broken, actually, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. So it's fine. Quit worrying about it; it's nothing."

Shikamaru's tightly wound nerves started to groan with the strain. "You might have been killed," he said, forcing words over the lump in his throat, "that…" he faked a cough and tried again, "that's not nothing." He couldn't put any heat in the words. It took everything he had to keep his voice steady.

"A flesh wound and some broken ribs _are_ nothing, so relax." He pulled a face. "Ino's been bad enough – I don't need you fussing at me, too. If she tries to follow me into the bath one more time, or shoves one more glass of water in my face, I refuse to be held accountable for my actions."

Shikamaru stared at him for a minute, inhaling a last breath of smoke, and then he did something he hadn't done since they were teenagers: he lay down and rested his cheek on Chouji's lap. He flicked the cigarette butt away and reaching up over his head, found the bandages around Chouji's waist and followed them to the diamond shape that padded the wound in his ribs. "This," he said, the ache in his throat compressing his voice into a pathetically plaintive groan, "Don't let it happen again." It was an irrational plea, but fear clawed at his belly, making him nauseous, and he didn't care that he sounded like a stubborn child.

"I'll do my best," Chouji promised, chuckling, never surprised at anything Shikamaru said or did anymore. Big hands carefully untied the cord that bound Shikamaru's hair, and then combed the ragged lengths out with gentle fingers. Shikamaru sighed and closed his eyes, trying to block out the light and the noise and the smells of the summer night, concentrating on the feel of Chouji's hands in his hair. It was a pleasure he didn't often allow himself; of the three of them, Shikamaru was themost guarded. He knew he came across as aloof, that others didn't always understand how people as warm and vibrant as Chouji and Ino could live with such a cold fish. He wondered himself, sometimes, what the two of them got in exchange for loving him. It seemed they were forever giving of themselves, their time, their energy, their love, and he rarely responded in kind. He did love them, and loved them deeply, so much so that it hurt to think that they might not understand the depth of his affection, simply because he didn't have the resources to express it.

Shikamaru had furrowed his brows, disconsolate; a calloused thumb touched his face to rub them smooth. "Relax," Chouji murmured. He reached down to lay a hand across Shikamaru's upper belly and ribs, and tapped the hollow space beneath his sternum twice with his index finger. "Breathe," he reminded him. Shikamaru realized his breath had been shallow, his abdomen braced against a threat that no longer existed. He forced the tension out of his back, belly and shoulders as best he could, and tried to obey Chouji's gentle direction.

"Kiba came by the hospital this morning." Chouji's voice was quiet, restful. "Hinata was with him. She and Lee are teaching at the Academy this year, you know. The kids are all complaining about Lee's taijutsu classes. They bellyache about being sore and exhausted, but physically, they're as well-conditioned as most of the genin. Hinata's teaching chakra control, and thinks being so aware of their bodies has made a real difference their ability to manage their chakra."

Chouji lightly tapped Shikamaru's belly again with two thick fingers; his whole body had steadily gone rigid once more. He struggled to force his muscles to relax, while Chouji continued, without breaking stride, "Kiba told me he threatened his genin team with training sessions with Lee if they didn't pass their chuunin exams this autumn. Two of them have younger siblings still in Academy, so they know all about the green monster." He chuckled softly. "He's expecting a lot of out of them their first go-round, considering that no one in our year, except you, made chuunin on the first attempt."

Chouji went on like that for a long while, one hand stroking Shikamaru's hair and one regularly drumming between his ribs, urging him to relax, all the while relating the day-to-day village trivia that had interested, amused, or surprised him. Shikamaru caught maybe a quarter of what Chouji had to say; the rest was white noise, but it helped to drown out the night. It was soothing, and coupled with the constant reminders to keep his body slack and the soporific caressing of his scalp, it finally began to numb his hypersensitive nerves.

"Shiori nearly died." He interrupted Chouji mid-sentence. "Sakura doesn't know whether she'll survive or not." He closed his eyes, surprised at how painfully the words stuck in his throat. "They came out of nowhere, no hitai-ate. Masks. Three dropped down in front of me, and two by Roku, and while we were busy with them, a kunai flew out of the shadows and nailed Shiori in the chest. Then they ran, just disappeared. Roku wanted to follow them – so did I – but…" Shikamaru pulled a ragged breath through his teeth. "But I _had_ to get Shiori home if I could. And so I lost any fucking chance I had at catching the bastards."

Chouji's hands had stilled. "It's what I would have done," he said after a moment. "I think it's what most of us would have done. And the Inozuka may still be able to pick up a scent from the kunai that hit Shiori, or from the site of the ambush. Maybe some of the allied villages have run into your masked shinobi, too, and have more information. It's not hopeless, Shikamaru. We could still catch them."

"Hana is already on the trail," Shikamaru told him, in a weary voice. "And Naruto has sent messages to Sand, Artisan, Lightning, and Rain asking about unusual attacks like this one. But," he sat up, rubbing at his temples, "but it was _Shiori_ they wanted. It was obvious from the beginning."

He grimaced. "I've been through her file a dozen times, read all her mission reports. She's a good kunoichi, but killing her doesn't deal any especially damaging blow to Leaf. I can't see that she ever offended anybody high enough up in any of the kingdoms or villages to merit this kind of attack against her. And she doesn't have a single kill to her name, so I doubt that it could be a personal vendetta. I can't make heads or tails of it."

He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them. "I'm missing something."

"Is that what has you so wound up tonight?" Chouji asked softly.

"There is a reason for this," Shikamaru answered, not looking up, and not answering. "There were things that happened that led us all to that place; that attack didn't come out of nowhere."

He ground his teeth in frustration. "There had to be a way to predict this, somehow. I missed it. And even with the advantage of hindsight, I still can't see it. I can't think how I could have better prepared for this mission, or what I could have done differently, that would have alerted me to this possibility. I fucked up somewhere, and I can't even figure out _what_ I did wrong."

"Because you didn't do _anything_ wrong." Chouji's voice was infinitely gentle, but the simple answer was almost as maddening as the problem, and Shikamaru shot an irritated look at his friend. "You didn't," Chouji repeated, "do anything wrong."

"If that were true, Shiori wouldn't be fighting for her life right now," Shikamaru replied harshly. The adrenaline rush had passed, leaving anxiety and guilt in its wake.

"You are not a god, Shikamaru." Chouji shook his mane of wild hair; his eyes fixed on Shikamaru's. "You may be ten, or twenty, or a hundred steps ahead of the rest of us, but even you can only work with what you know. You researched, or reasoned, everything you had any grounds to suspect you might need to know about your team and your mission. But you're never going to know everything. Sometimes you're going to get blindsided, and all you can do is move forward."

Chouji's gaze was steady and calm, full of authority and indomitable convictions, and Shikamaru looked away. It was extremely rare for the big shinobi to stand his ground against Shikamaru; on the handful of occasions he had done so, Shikamaru had backed down each time. He backed down now.

Chouji was right, he told himself, praying it was true, that he had done everything he possibly could have done, desperate to believe that he really was holding himself to an impossible standard. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he put his chin on his knees like a child and watched the moths dancing in the streetlamps. "I'm tired," he realized, the ache in his throat worse than before. "I'm just so fucking tired."

Chouji sighed. "Of course you're tired. You volunteered for five of the last dozen S rank missions the village has been offered," he reminded him quietly, "two of which you accomplished solo. Your last ten missions included a kunai in the back and a mangled leg, the death of a teammate, two seriously injured teammates, and brought you up against a Leaf traitor, two would-be assassins, slavers, and a serial rapist and murderer." Shikamaru shuddered inadvertently. The horrors of the past year had left their marks on his soul; he'd known it, but hearing those awful memories one after the other from Chouji's mouth, it was astonishing that he had any grip left on his sanity.

"There are seventy-eight talented, experienced jounin in this village. There is no good reason for you to take the most traumatizing, most difficult missions every single time."

"My teams have the highest survival rate," Shikamaru mumbled into his kneecaps. "And I've never failed a mission – other than bringing Sasuke back after the Chuunin exams when we were kids."

Chouji nodded. "You're the best there is." Shikamaru managed a disdainful snort, earning a faint smile from Chouji. A questioning hand touched his elbow, and Shikamaru lay back down with his head on Chouji's thigh. "You are the best there is," Chouji murmured. "But you still aren't a god. And you're not an infinite resource, either."

Chouji laid his hand on Shikamaru's waist, slipping his fingers under the thin black shirt to stroke the flesh beneath. "You're using yourself up, Shikamaru," he said, palming Shikamaru's lower ribs. "You drink too much and you smoke too much and you haven't managed to sleep through the night without Ino's help since this past winter. You brood for hours on end, and you hardly ever play shogi any more." The big hand slid down a little and squeezed Shikamaru's side. "You never _eat_ enough."

This last was said with such a bizarre combination of plaintive accusation and bewildered disbelief that Shikamaru laughed, and was, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, wholly and definitively home. The sharp dissonance of numbed emotions and oversensitive nerves faded into a familiar sense of vaguely discontent – but comfortable – weariness. It was the fussiness of a sick child in his mother's arms, the nagging throb of a burn slathered with cold butter, the frayed temper knotted together again by a lover's embrace. The discomfort remained, but it was manageable, more frustrating than painful. Shikamaru tugged Chouji's hand out from under his shirt, and pressed a grateful kiss into the palm.

"I'll do better," Shikamaru promised, wondering if perhaps he really meant it this time. He held Chouji's hand in both of his, marveling at the versatility of it. Chouji could braid Ino's hair more neatly than she herself could manage, and hold the most fragile butterfly in his hands without damaging its delicate wings; he could also crush whole human skeletons if provoked. How such raw power could be so complimented by the cheerful, chubby hands that routinely washed clothes and dishes and lovers, hands that cooked mouthwatering dishes and moved shougi pieces into absurdly precarious positions, Shikamaru could not fathom.

And he was glad of it, he realized, tracing lines in Chouji's palm with his fingertips, glad that there were things he didn't understand, because it proved Chouji's point. He wasn't a god. He didn't know everything, so maybe he could screw up and not somehow be guiltier than anyone else who screwed up, because he should have known better. He couldn't _always_ know better, could he?

He kissed Chouji's palm again, and as he did, a wave of cool, sweetly floral air washed over his face; Ino was here, the breeze from the door as she stepped onto the roof was a welcome relief from the stagnant summer mugginess. Shikamaru shifted just enough to be able to see her, to watch the thin white satin of her robe cling to her pale skin. The robe itself was almost indecently short at the hem, and she wore nothing beneath it, but Shikamaru had never been the jealous type, and Ino had never been modest. If someone else did happen to glance their way from another rooftop, Ino wouldn't care, and neither would he. Chouji would be the only one who minded at all, and both his lovers would tease him as his swirls disappeared into his embarrassed flush.

"Haven't you two been brooding up here long enough?" Ino demanded, feigning a sulk. Her sultry voice stirred even as Chouji's soothed, pitched to taunt, to arouse, to incite to action, always urgent, always demanding. Ino forever wanted something – though thankfully, these days, she recognized that Shikamaru couldn't always give her what she wanted when she wanted it. Chouji did; his greatest pleasures were derived from service, and his generous spirit compelled him to fulfill needs and desires and demands with unfailing good humor. But Shikamaru needed, on occasion, to be apart, to be separate, and Ino never had understood this quirk. She'd learnt to respect it over the years, and kept a safe distance when his cigarette was lit, when his eyes were glazed over and he was deep in thought, but she didn't understand it. She and Chouji gave their whole hearts to their conversations, to lovemaking, to the little characters Ino traced on her boys' backs in the dark, and Ino wanted nothing less from Shikamaru. It was fair – but it wasn't possible.

Shikamaru cherished those moments when he felt fully engaged, but they wearied him. Intense focus on a single person or act went against his disposition; he naturally observed a great deal and pursued many paths of thought upon each observation. It was partially this gift that made him such a great strategist – but it made paying attention to chores or Ino's tales from the flower shop very trying when he was preoccupied with pictures in the clouds, analyzing his last mission, spying on the neighborhood kids beyond their window to decide which of them were going to end up in genin teams together, and even, sometimes, mentally composing bad poetry about all the other things he was thinking about. He could be lazy when he chose, but he was neither aloof nor apathetic, like most people believed. It was just that his mind was continually pulled in so many different directions that very few people could tell the difference between indolence and distraction.

Shikamaru was grateful beyond measure that Chouji was and always had been content with his partial attention. Ino tried to be, and he was grateful for that, too. It was contrary to her nature to be content without being fully satisfied as it was against Chouji's to stop eating before he was filled to the brim. They were hedonists, the both of them, thrilling in the pleasure and gratification of a moment. Shikamaru was always ten steps ahead of the passion.

Chouji was apologizing. "We lost track of the time, Ino. Sorry." Contrite. Accommodating. As always. Shikamaru allowed himself a small, personal smile.

Ino had her hands on her hips, in a pose frighteningly reminiscent of Shikamaru's mother. "You were due for another dose of antibiotics over an hour ago. And I know those stitches hurt – Sakura's a terrible seamstress; do you want another painkiller?"

"I'm fine, Ino," Chouji replied sheepishly. "Don't worry so much."

"A punctured lung is fine?" she demanded. "I suppose a severed head would be a minor inconvenience for you?"

"Punctured lung?" Shikamaru sat up so quickly that he smacked the top of his skull against Chouji's jaw. "You lied?" Honestly, he couldn't have said whether the injury or the deceit – or his seeming powerlessness to detect either – upset him more.

"Just a little!" One of Chouji's big hands cupped his injured chin, the other waved frantically in front of him. "I didn't want you to worry!" A deep crease appeared between his brows, and an anxious frown pulled at his mouth.

"Dammit, Chouji…" Shikamaru pulled a steadying breath through his teeth. "Ino," he asked, in a tightly controlled tone, "why is he even here, if he has such a serious injury?"

"Because he insisted," Ino replied coolly, a warning in her eyes, "and because he's too light of a sleeper to get any rest in that damn noisy hospital. I brought him home this morning when he was too exhausted to eat breakfast, and I let him come up to the roof tonight because otherwise he would have lain awake the whole night worried about you. Letting him talk to you was the simplest way to get you both to sleep." Her voice had dropped to a lower register, to a matter-of-fact tone that was ironically comforting in its righteous indignation. She felt that the situation was under control; he could leave it in her hands.

Shikamaru rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly weary. "You're really okay?" he asked, without looking up.

"I'm tired and sore," Chouji admitted, still looking upset. "And Sakura says it'll be a month or more before I can even return to full training, two months before I'll be on active duty. But I don't feel too bad, and eight weeks of leave is nothing to sneeze at. I'm good, Shikamaru, really."

Shikamaru counted his breaths, and when he got to ten, all was forgiven. "You're getting too good at hiding things from me," he groused, reaching up to squeeze Chouji's shoulder. "Quit." Chouji's stiff frame relaxed under his hand. Shikamaru wasn't at all content with being lied to, but they would have that discussion – you could hardly call it a fight when Chouji wouldn't even argue – some other time. Right now, he just wanted Ino to do whatever she meant to do to make Chouji better.

"It would have been a lot worse if the sword hadn't stuck in his ribcage," Ino allowed. "I don't think the sword actually perforated the lung, anyway – probably just grazed it. It looked more like a tear than a thrust wound. He probably ripped open the lacerated tissue during the run back to Konoha. The lung had only collapsed about fifteen percent before Sakura got hold of him." Pursing her pink lips at Chouji, she added, "Regardless, you need rest."

The glittering aquamarine jewels that served as Ino's eyes slid toward Shikamaru. "And you, my ridiculous love, you've been short on sleep for months. One more cigarette, Shikamaru, I mean it. If you're not in bed by the time I've got Chouji settled in for the night, I will _put_ you there, and you'll _stay_ there until I say otherwise."

Shikamaru raised his hands in mock surrender as Ino strode purposefully across the rooftop and gave Chouji her hand. The big shinobi accepted it with a sheepish look at Shikamaru, and a grimace when he found he actually required her assistance to rise. Ino slid one shapely, white arm around Chouji's broad back and walked with him back to the door, and together, they disappeared inside the apartment.

Shikamaru stared at the lighted doorway for several long minutes, puffing thoughtfully on his last permitted cigarette. The bossy little brat from his childhood had become a bossy grown-up – and it was just as well that that she had. He hadn't the temperament or the presence of mind to deal with the ins and outs of real life. And although Chouji had proven in their early days together, before Ino, that he could be quite level-headed when it came to things like leaky roofs and paying bills and cleaning out closets, he also consistently denigrated his own needs to an unacceptable degree, inexplicably and acutely fearful of becoming a burden to the people he loved. He'd done everything, and he'd done it so quietly and so well that Shikamaru hadn't even realized just how much work was involved in maintaining a household.

Since Ino moved in, it never became an issue anymore. She took and she gave with equal vigor; but she also made Shikamaru give and forced Chouji to take, and it was healthier for all of them that she did. The pendulum never swung too far to altruism or egotism for her, while Chouji remained frozen at the peak of the selfless upswing, and Shikamaru had to fight every moment not to lose himself at the other end of the spectrum. It was easier, with Ino there to remind him, to tug him back to earth when his mind had escaped too far into the clouds.

Not that he was deliberately selfish, he protested against himself silently, watching his smoky breath evaporate into the muggy night. He never consciously ignored the needs of others – certainly not Ino's or Chouji's, and he knew with a blinding and humbling and soul-swelling clarity that he would gladly suffer any grievance or injury if it meant preserving them from like fates. On the battlefield, his life held no value for him but that it might serve to protect their lives; he was not, in essence, selfish. But beyond that ultimate sacrifice, Shikamaru often felt that he had little to give. He wasn't domestically inclined, his conversation – when he had the presence of mind to converse at all – tended to esotericism, and he was as emotionally awkward as any naïve, anxious teenager. Even Chouji's private, gentle affections occasionally left him flustered and nervous, to say nothing of Ino's determination to display Team Ten's unique rapport as publicly and as blatantly as she possibly could.

Shikamaru was not passionate, was neither demonstrative nor particularly forthcoming. Chouji and Ino deserved all the expressions of love and terms of endearment they shared with each other, every embrace, every kiss, every loving glance – but none of these things were in Shikamaru's nature, and he considered many of them beyond his ability. When it was dark, when no one spoke, he could sometimes drown his overactive mind in the act of love, could substitute animal lust for the passion his lovers summoned from the secret places in their souls, the place Shikamaru had yet to locate within his own heart, if it existed; he could pretend that he possessed the wherewithal to love them as violently and as madly as they loved each other and him.

He would say it tonight, he promised himself, dashing his cigarette against the rooftop. Despite it being the single truth Shikamaru ascribed to, it was only with the greatest difficulty he managed to say it; still they ought to hear it once in awhile, even if he couldn't voice it with Chouji's rumbling, heartfelt sincerity or Ino's possessive, gleeful, jealous fervor. Regardless of how poorly he conveyed the depth of its reality, it was true. Tonight he would tell them he loved them, Shikamaru swore a second time, before following his lovers in out of the stale, oppressive night.


	2. Chapter 2

Ino gently detached herself from Shikamaru's mind, and came to herself again in the watery gray light of a rainy morning. The cool rain signaled a welcome relief from the summer heat; Ino rose and cracked the window to share the breezy morning and the soothing rhythm of the rain with the boys. Shikamaru slept on, peacefully enough for now, draped in the light coverlet Ino had laid over him in the night. Despite her attempts at silence, Chouji's eyes snapped open at the faint click of the window latch. The doe-brown eyes questioned wordlessly, and Ino pointed at the floor beside him. Chouji raised himself in bed enough to glance at their sleeping partner, and then he lay back down with a muffled grunt of pain.

"Painkiller?" Ino mouthed. He had refused one the night before. Chouji scowled, a grimace directed partially at her for offering, but mostly at himself, because he was going to accept. Ino shook her head with long-suffering exasperation, and bent to pull his meds from the night table. The drawer scraped slightly as she pulled at the weathered maple, but Shikamaru lay insensate at her feet.

"Bet he won't sleep ten minutes more," Ino muttered to Chouji, who raised his hands helplessly. Shikmaru's sleeplessness had been the subject of many whispered conversations between them; nightmares and general insomia kept black circles under their lover's dark eyes, and a perpetual edginess in his demeanor. He had never been ill-tempered before, only lackadaisical; lately, though he was never intentionally unkind or rude, it was only with an effort that he managed even the vaguest pleasantries.

It wasn't unexpected, really. As children, Asuma had privately warned both Ino and Chouji that Shikamaru would likely be prone to melancholia as they grew older. He saw too much, and he questioned too much, and, as Asuma had once said, he just thought too damn much. Despite this, she and Chouji had, in her opinion, done rather well at keeping Shikamaru's spirits up.

Ino, for her part, kept him engaged in their day-to-day life, demanding advice, opinions, attention, sex, whatever would make him get out of his head and into their world. His appetite for life seemed low – it always had, of course, but Ino did all she could to excite it. Physically it was easy enough – he was a man, and while he had always cherished a secret desire for his male teammate, he appreciated beauty and pleasure in all its forms. She prepared foods the way he liked them, she purposefully left him the easiest chores in the house, and she'd learnt to play shougi.

Chouji had been a haven of sorts for Shikamaru all his life, as stable and constant and unmoving as the mountains in the distance. Of course, Ino too had come to rely on the gentle man over the years, to allay her fears and temper her outbursts. His faith in the other two and in the power of the three of them together was unshakable; in the face of such overwhelming conviction, all Shikamaru's rationalizing and all Ino's furies were like the raindrops on their window pane, tempestuous seas breaking powerlessly against an ancient headland. Long after Ino's rampages subsided, long after Shikamaru's restless mind was quieted, Chouji remained, unchanging, unchanged, unchangeable.

Ino slipped a hypodermic needle quickly into Chouji's arm, and stooped to brush her lips against the red swirl on his right cheek. It was one of her favorite places to kiss, but if he wasn't seated or lying down, she couldn't reach it. "Gotcha," she whispered.

He managed a smile, then closed his eyes and relaxed against the pillow. "I hate these," he told her, for the millionth time. His voice was low, gruff with sleep and pain. "They make me so groggy."

"Just for a little while," she soothed. "By the time breakfast is ready, you'll be wide awake." She seated herself on the bed and reached for his robe, intending to check his bandages, but he caught her hand and gestured with it toward the floor.

"You'll wake him up – can't it wait?" He sounded discontented and nervous, and as Ino hesitated, he added, "You said yourself it wouldn't take long."

"Even if we woke him up, which I doubt – that guy can sleep through a thunderstorm, insomnia or no insomnia – he wouldn't be upset," Ino reminded Chouji gently, pulling her hand free of his loose grasp. "He knew I'd be up and about early, but he still wanted to sleep in here. We're not troubling him."

A pinched, unhappy expression settled onto Chouji's normally cheerful countenance, and rather than reason him out of his irrational fear of being burdensome, as she normally would have done, Ino simply laid her palm against the injury long enough to make certain that it had not bled through its dressing during the night, and drew his robe closed again. "We can wait," she told him, taking one big hand in both of hers. "I think you're silly, but we can wait."

Chouji smiled his relief. "Sorry," he mumbled, as the pain-relieving medicine took hold of his tongue, "to be a bother." Ino kissed each of his massive knuckles before laying his motionless hand on the bed beside him.

"You're no bother," Ino assured him, and he promptly sank into a quiet, drug-induced stupor. She kissed his swirl, and after pulling away briefly, planted another kiss on the opposite swirl, and one on his mouth.

Sidling past the still-sleeping Shikamaru, Ino rounded the bed and made her way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen down the hall. The kitchen was a favorite gathering place for the threesome, as it was, Ino supposed, for many families. Between Ino and Chouji, it was always kept immaculately clean. She was a neat freak to her fingertips, and the knowledge that their kitchen was routinely scrubbed every evening after dinner was comforting to her. It was also the place she – as the only natural morning person in the apartment – went to gather her thoughts in the morning, armed with a porcelain cup of green tea and a pair of beautifully manicured bonsais the boys had given her some years back, not long after Asuma had died.

The tiny trees and the miniature garden in which they were planted were more than a hobby for her – the little landscape was a microcosmic world in which she was a goddess, and everything was ordered according to her design, for her pleasure. Even Ino could admit that this fantasy was a little silly – but as the few people who knew her best could attest, Ino was herself just a little silly. She'd been known to pull faces at Shikamaru until he smiled, to hide herself in closets and cabinets to startle her unsuspecting lovers, to make faces with their food in their bento boxes, all sorts of childish madness that made her that much more valuable to her lovers, who both needed a little absurdity in their lives.

Before she went to tend her miniature garden, Ino turned on the oven and set the rice to cook for breakfast. She also brewed a pot of coffee for Shikamaru and put water on to boil for her tea. Ino and Chouji usually had green tea in the morning, and only drank coffee occasionally (and then only with a lot of milk, a little sugar, and an ice cube), but morning coffee had been a quirk of Shikamaru's father's which had been quietly adopted by his son. Like his father, Shikamaru wanted his morning brew scalding hot, strong, and black. Unlike his father, he would always drink it with a cigarette in hand, if Ino would permit him to smoke in the apartment – another habit he had picked up from a man he respected. As it was, he generally took his first mug up on the roof, and came down with an empty mug, bad breath, and a brighter disposition. It was as restful for him, she supposed, as her bonsai were for her, and though she insisted he brush his teeth before kissing her, she never begrudged him those ten or fifteen quiet minutes to himself.

When their respective breakfast beverages had been prepared, Ino spent ten minutes fussing with the miniature bough of one tree, tying it in the direction she wanted it to grow, and snipped the end off another which had grown too long to be attractive. As she repotted the clipping for the shop, Shikamaru stumbled dazedly into the kitchen, all but useless before his morning caffeine fix. He cursed as his shaking hand spilt the coffee, and stumbled away again, dripping coffee all the way up the stairs. Ino sighed and went to mop up the mess he left behind. It was time to start cooking, anyway.

By all rights, the kitchen should have been entirely Chouji's responsibility, as he was inarguably the better cook, but Ino had long ago assigned herself the chore of preparing their family breakfast. Rice in the rice-maker, veggies on the cutting board, fish in a pan, miso on the stove, eggs in a bowl. Pickled vegetables waited in the refrigerator until she was ready to serve. No natto, because neither of her boys would touch it, and Ino wouldn't buy it for herself. Amost the same routine as always. Almost.

Ino seldom put meat in their omelets, but Chouji had been on a liquid and semi-solid diet for a week, and he hadn't complained about it, not once. That bothered Ino just a little. That business had mostly wrapped up before they hit their twenties, but it cropped up again every once in awhile. So she was making ome rice with pork, instead of her usual rolled omelets. She dropped a handful of chopped onions into the miso, trying to convince herself not to worry until she knew more. Three horse mackerels went into the oven – one significantly larger than the others – and she started to grate zucchini and carrots for ome rice.

A little while later, after the rice was done and she had begun to cook the omelets, Shikamaru wandered back into the kitchen, steadier now, having satiated both his addictions.

"Sure you don't want some tea?" Ino shot a teasing grin at Shikamaru as he poured his second cup of coffee. She was busy with the omelets, or she would have gotten it for him. He shook his head, disinterestedly, and went to sit at the table.

That was worrisome, too, damn it. He should have pulled a face, or returned with a "fuck, no," or some other dumb response. The dark-headed shinobi spurned tea, except during the rare tea ceremony Chouji performed for them. Perhaps he had realized somewhere along the way, some precious moment when he was actually really paying attention, that the quiet tea service was Chouji's roof, Chouji's bonsai, Chouji's escape when life got too complicated. It suited the big man, as all traditions did, as the custodians of continuity and sameness, but the service aspect of the tea ceremony made it an especially meaningful ritual for the big shinobi. He hadn't performed one for them in awhile, Ino realizes, as the timer dings for the fish, and the worry dug a little deeper into her mind.

For the moment, however, Chouji was sleeping, and Shikamaru was sitting at the table drinking his coffee, glassy-eyed and tired, despite all Ino's efforts the night before. Trying to put Chouji to the back for her mind, she glided around the kitchen with more flourish that was strictly necessary. Ino had all of a dancer's grace, and her overt sexuality usually served to drag him out of his morning stupor. So she always made a point of making him watch her, making him look, making him remember that he shared his life, his home, and his bed with a vibrant, sexy woman who knew all the secret places on his body and in his heart. As she bent to slide a pan of broiled fish out of the oven, she shifted slightly to make the satin of her robe cling enticingly to a rear a little rounder – and in both her lovers' opinions, rather nicer to look at – than it had once been. Ino cast a surreptitious glance behind her to see that he was enjoying the view.

He was staring blankly at the table. Ino frowned. "That is not breakfast," Ino warned him, setting the pan on the stovetop noisily. He started a little at the sound, and she nodded meaningfully at his coffee mug.

Shikamaru glanced up, shrugged, and sipped at the black coffee she had deemed inadequate morning nutrition. Ino gave him an appraising look. "Chouji told me last night that you were too thin. He was right; you look like a damn skeleton. Do you just not eat at all when you're on assignment?"

He shrugged indifferently. "Nerves."

"Your nerves and I are going to have it out one of these days," she observed, scooping a pile of rice out of their laughably large rice-maker. She added it to an already heaping bowl on a tray obviously meant for Chouji, laden with fish, omelets, and pickled vegetables. Reaching into a cabinet, she withdrew a small bag of barbeque potato chips as well.

The chips made him smile.

Ino spared an approving glance and half a smile for him as she poured steaming milk into a mug – hot milk was a favorite of Chouji's, though he'd rather die than admit it, and she wanted to sneak calories in for him however she possibly could this morning. Tea wouldn't do, not today.

"Chouji's been on liquids for a week," she told him, dipping her finger in the milk to pull out the skin that had formed on the surface, "but Sakura stopped by yesterday afternoon to check on him, and said he could start eating solid food today."

She grinned impudently. "Of course, he was sleeping at the time, so he's expecting mystery goop again for breakfast."

"I should go and disabuse him of that misapprehension." Shikamaru made as if to rise, but at Ino's affronted expression, he immediately planted himself back in the kitchen chair. "I wouldn't ruin your surprise," he muttered irritably. "Don't look at me like that." He stared into the dregs of his coffee.

It took Ino only a split-second to recover, and the instant she did, her pretty mouth twisted into an outrageous scowl and she flung a wet dishrag at him. Then she picked up the coffee decanter, and filled his cold mug, berating him about teasing a girl before she was even fully awake. Levity was so out of character for him these days, though; she couldn't be blamed for misunderstanding.

Shikamaru rolled his eyes. He had to know the act for what it was – Ino was most definitely a morning person – but he let it go. When he managed a rueful grin over his coffee cup, Ino caught his chin in two fingers and bent to press her lips to his.

Pulling away only slightly, she murmured, "I'll come eat breakfast with you once I take care of Chouji, okay? So just relax." She kissed him again, and, gathering up the massive tray in her arms, carried Chouji's breakfast upstairs.

"Chouji?"

Half a dozen pillows propped the big man up in the bed, and Ino smiled. Shikamaru. He was trying, she thought with satisfaction. Ino didn't mind getting Chouji upright when his injuries made movement painful or potentially dangerous (or when drugs had skewed his sense of balance), but it wasn't the easiest thing in the world.

It wasn't his weight that was troublesome. She had made it a point, though one she had never verbalized to either of her teammates, to always be strong enough to carry them out of danger, without using chakra. A medic who couldn't remove an injured comrade from a battlefield was no use at all, as far as Ino could see, even if that comrade was twice her size. A lover who couldn't protect her man was even more useless.

But he was just so _big_. It was awkward, like maneuvering a piece of furniture. Shikamaru had laughed himself sick once, watching her trying to extricate Chouji from a hole he'd fallen into. It was, she remembered ruefully whenever she told the story, the crowning moment of a bizarre mission which had involved purple lipstick, a lion in a dress, six bottles of fine sake, and, unfortunately, a broken leg for Chouji. He probably could have freed himself from the sinkhole; he had just earned his jounin rank, at the time. But Ino had feared for his back after such a significant fall, and refused to allow him to try. He'd broken his leg when she dropped him.

Smiling wryly at the memory, she proffered the tray as she came through the door.

"No mystery juice?" Chouji smiled faintly. "I'd finally gotten used to it."

"Nope!" They kept a bed table; most shinobi families had at least one, for just this reason. Ino set the tray on the floor and unfolded the legs of the bed table over his lap. "You get the good stuff this morning."

"Thank you." He reached up to brush her cheek, with a gentleness that melted her heart. After all this time, there remained a shy, hesitant wonder in the way he touched them, as if he still couldn't believe they returned his feelings. She had always imagined the boyish charm of it would wear off, eventually. It hasn't.

She set the tray before him. "Eat up, okay? I'll be back in a little while."

"Make sure Shikamaru eats well," Chouji told her, with a worried crease between his brows. She graced him with an affectionate smile and several kisses, and after promising to look after Shikamaru, she left him to his breakfast.

When she returned to the kitchen, she saw with surprise that Shikamaru had dished their breakfast out for them, even going so far as to arrange it properly on the table.

Breakfast was still something of a novelty for the lazy shinobi; he'd told her once that by the time he had entered Academy, his mother had given up on waking him in time to eat anything more substantial than toast. Before Ino had moved in with them, Chouji hadn't minded the fact that Shikamaru was a late riser or that the first meal they shared was lunch. Ino insisted the three of them eat together whenever possible. She had been known to stoop to unbelievable depths to get Shikamaru out of bed and to the breakfast table, but those nasty tricks had fallen off drastically with the advent of his insomnia.

These days she let him sleep as long as he was able – never long enough – and he was usually wide awake by the time she had breakfast ready. He rarely ate much of it. His appetite had never been anything but meager, much to Chouji's dismay, and it didn't help matters that his stomach had grown rather sensitive over the years. His lovers probably made too much of it, but it was undeniable that he'd lost some weight over the last few months.

She gave him an appraising look.

"Just eat," he said, stiffly.

"Sheesh, don't get embarrassed over a nice gesture." Ino threw her hands up. "I'm a little surprised, that's all. Not ungrateful. Need some more coffee?"

He shook his head, and she joined him at the table. He'd given her too much, but she wasn't going to complain when he had deliberately gone out of his way to make her morning just a little easier. That kind of solicitousness was as natural as breathing for Chouji and equally unnatural for Shikamaru.

He reached across the table and poured her tea for her.

Ino put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on them. "This is a nice mood you're in," she observed mildly, pursing her lips speculatively. As expected, he reddened all the way to his ears. "Quit that," she told him, wrinkling her nose, "and talk to me."

"I'm not allowed to pour tea?" He set the teapot down rather more vigorously than was strictly necessary.

Ino smiled. "I meant, stop blushing, my ridiculous love. Don't be childish. I'm just a little curious about where this is coming from. I'm glad for it, but you're such a creature of a habit. Even pleasant deviations tend to worry me."

"Why do you insist on calling me that?" he groused. "Us, you call Chouji that, too."

"My ridiculous love, childish, or creature of habit?"

He scowled. "Who's being childish now?"

He glowered at her; she kissed the tips of her index finger and middle finger and pressed them to his mouth. "Because you _are_ ridiculous. Neither you nor Chouji can has ever been able to accept that you're loved exactly as you are."

That caught him off guard, as she had intended it should, swiping the scowl right off his mouth. She smiled innocently and began to cut her mackerel.

"That… that's…" Shikamaru floundered for a minute.

"You're welcome to pour my tea any time you like, Shikamaru. But forcing yourself to be considerate – while utterly _adorable_ – is really unnecessary." She bit into her fish – she really was getting better at this, she thought, happily. Not as good as Chouji, of course, but better. "It would be one thing if you were just making an effort, going the extra mile on a whim, because you love me and you knew it would make me happy," she conceded after swallowing, "but you're not. You're feeling guilty about always being so distant and trying to make it up to me. Don't. You're fine just as you are, so don't worry about it."

He was red to his fingertips, which was really too cute. And he thought he was such a coldhearted bastard.

Of course, so did most everyone else. Ino laughed, the tinkling giggle that always made Chouji smile at her. "It's alright, Shika-kun," she soothed, with as much indulgent condescension as she could muster. She reached over and patted his arm - his elbows were on the table, and his face was in his hands. "I'm dropping it."

Black amandine eyes glowered at her from behind the mesh of his fingers. "Did you know," he asked mournfully, "that I always meant to marry an ordinary girl?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chouji lay back against the pillows, thick brows lowered pensively as he considered the massive spread of food with which Ino had presented him. Breakfast had become a specialty of Ino's, ostensibly to spite Shikamaru's aversion to eating first thing in the morning.

Chouji suspected that her efforts this morning had less to do with Shikamaru's lack of appetite than his own. It hadn't been much of an issue the last year or so, but he had relapsed before, and she still worried. She needn't have; he had come to terms with the fact that physically, he would never be 'normal.' Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he was used to it. Familiar pains hurt less than novel ones, after all, even if objectively they are identical in scope.

There were still pricks of guilt when Ino convinced him to eat something he knew he shouldn't, and embarrassment when he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror alongside Shikamaru's painfully thin frame. These small discomforts recalled the disaster that had brought the 'best trick hand in Hanafuda' out of the field and into the bedroom, but his teammates' approbation had gone a long way toward smoothing the destructive edges from his insecurity.

They didn't want him to trim down, or shape up, or whatever it was that everyone had always told him he should do when he had been a young adolescent. Granted, he was a good deal slimmer than he had been then, but compared to his knobbly-kneed, hollow-bellied lovers, he was different. Ino and Shikamaru forgave this deficiency; rather, they refused to acknowledge it as such. They simply accepted the big shinobi as he was.

He snorted. _Different_.

Ino had him trained well, he thought, poking ruefully at the ome rice she had prepared, thinking she was being sneaky. "Fat" was the word that was wanted, but she never let him say it. She wanted him just as he was, she insisted, and the way she fed him, he could almost believe it.

They didn't care. And Chouji tried not to care, for their sakes, because they worried.

He didn't doubt their sincerity. And he didn't doubt his place in their peculiar little family. He knew, down to his very bones, that they loved him, that without him, the two other shinobi would struggle, probably futilely, to hold their relationship together. Ino needed too much and had too much to give. Shikamaru needed space to think, time to himself, and a routine existence that required little concentration. She would end up feeling ignored, unappreciated, and alone, and eventually decide she deserved better than the dregs of Shikamaru's attention. Shikamaru would watch her go and drink her away, because he agreed with her.

So they needed Chouji, who shielded each from the other's idiosyncrasies. But when it was dark and quiet and Ino was curled up on his right side, blonde head resting on his shoulder in lieu of a pillow, and Shikamaru was turned away and the only physical connection between the old friends was Shikamaru's toes pressed against Chouji's calf, he sometimes wondered if his whole role in this bizarre trio was simply to keep his brighter, more talented teammates from losing the best thing they had ever had.

On those nights, he would lie sleepless beside them, ashamed, because even if that was the way of things, he shouldn't resent it. Just being this close was more than he had dared to wish for and more than he deserved, and he knew he should be grateful just to be a part of it.

But then a restive Shikamaru would stumble out of bed long before dawn, drop a hard, sleepy kiss on his mouth and mutter, "Sorry to wake you, Chou," and he'll know he was wrong. Ino would wake several hours later with a mischievous grin before sliding down between the sheets, and he'll know with all his heart that she's perfectly content that it's just the two of them, that the only space between them is in his imagination. Why they loved him was unfathomable, but they did, for more than his role as buffer between them and despite his unlovely physique. And then he felt guilty for having doubted affections they couldn't make plainer if they tried.

Still, Chouji poked the rice, mulling over the difference between appetite and physical hunger, and debated whether or not to eat it. He had a legitimate excuse; the analgesic Ino gave had given him nausea in the past. He could probably get away with the miso and the omelet, if he drank the milk. The pickled veggies would be better than the omelet, but Ino wouldn't accept miso and veggies for breakfast. Half and half, maybe, and a bite or two of the ome rice. It was more than he wanted, but probably the least Ino would accept.

The chopsticks closed expertly around a bite of omelet. Chouji stared at it for a long moment before lowering it back to the plate.

He didn't want it. He wasn't hungry. Not really. Eating like this was okay when he could train, but stuck in bed, he really didn't need this much. Not half this much. Not when he was already four kilos heavier than he should be.

Chouji set the chopsticks aside and laid his palm against his belly. When had he gained that weight? All of his clothes were specially created for the Akimichi clan; they grew and shrunk in conjunction with Chouji's own body, so he would never notice tightening waistbands. Neither of his partners allowed him anywhere near a scale, and the first time Ino had caught him measuring the circumference of his waist with the measuring tape from her sewing kit, she had cried for an hour until he promised never to do it again. He had a plain belt he'd used for a while, to note increases and decreases, but he hadn't used it in months, almost a year.

It had been almost that long since he'd worried about it.

But according to the hospital scale Sakura had unwittingly set before him, he had gained four kilos since his last physical.

Nauseated now in actuality, Chouji pushed the tray away. The long and the short of it was that he had gotten lazy. He ate what he wanted, when he wanted, didn't push himself hard enough during training, and hadn't kept up with his current size. He had been content with his lot; contentment made one complacent.

"And complacency makes you fat," Chouji murmured to himself, looking unhappily at the swollen, bandaged belly beneath his yukata. He sighed. "Fatter," he acknowledged softly.

Shikamaru and Ino must have noticed that he had gotten heavier, but they hadn't said a word. Of course not. They were terrified of what he might do.

Four kilos wouldn't take long. And honestly, he could lose six and still be perfectly healthy and able to perform his jutsus. Maybe if he could frame it as additional training, to recover from this injury…

Chouji frowned at himself. It wasn't good to start thinking like that. It was even worse to think about deceiving Ino and Shikamaru. That's how both of his relapses started. But really, he wasn't hungry, so he lay back on the pillows unhappily, wondering how long he had before Ino came to check on him.

If that were the extent of it, that he felt unattractive and out of place between his two lovely partners, he could live with that. They didn't seem to mind, and no one who knew anything about the trio seemed to care, either. But it had never been about his looks, no matter what Ino thought. Among their peers, fat and ugly were like squares and rhombi: not all rhombi are squares, but all fat people are ugly, as it were. Chouji had accepted the both labels as the price for his power long ago, as completely as he had believed in his father's promise that someday, someone would see beyond his imperfect form. After all, he tried not to judge anyone based on their appearances; surely there were others who tried to live by that standard. His family jutsus required some bulk. He had to be chubby, if he meant to be of any use to his village.

Accepting that truth hadn't made him confident. As a child, he had refused to remove clothing in front of others, trained alone, and exploded with denials anytime he was accused of being overweight. He still trained alone, swam alone, bathed alone, and even now felt uneasy being undressed around his partners, despite multiple object lessons demonstrating why he shouldn't be the least bit embarrassed. No, accepting his imperfections hadn't buoyed his ego. What it had done was give him an excuse to indulge himself. He was never going to be accepted by anyone based on his appearances anyway, so why bother restraining himself?

Why indeed. There were plenty of good reasons, and they had nothing to do with acceptance or vanity.

Chouji closed his eyes. Mulling over that awful autumn, remembering how disgusted he had been with himself, reminded him of the look on Ino's face when she'd seen him in the hospital a few days before. Fear and fury commingled in her turquoise eyes, a perfect storm of dark clouds ignited by anger. He had been just barely conscious when Sakura started peeling bandages back from his chest, but he remembered the way her breath caught in her chest, remembered the tiny, helpless, clenched fists.

Shikamaru's breath had caught just the same way in his brittle chest the night before, when he'd discovered the bandages. Chouji had felt his whole body seize up with fear, seen a thousand "what ifs" racing in his eyes, when the lazy genius was already nursing painfully raw nerves. He'd been a little too slow, and his teammates were paying the price for it.

He'd slipped. Once upon a time, Asuma had insisted his team 'train their weaknesses.' Twice a week, Ino had struggled to lift weights she had no business lifting, because physically, she was the least strong of the three. She fussed and raved and fretted about how manly she would look if Asuma didn't ease off of her. Shikamaru was the unlucky one whose greatest weakness was his reaction time – he needed a moment to orient himself to new situations, to think, to plan. Sometimes three times in a week, sometimes not for a month at a time, Asuma ambushed his pupil. Often he was alone, but he seldom used the same strategy twice. Occasionally he was backed up by another jounin, or more than one. Shikamaru rarely came out on top. His team had hated those days – but no one more than Chouji.

Chouji had to run. Two five hundred meter dashes, one at dawn, one at twilight, and an endurance run spanning most of the time between. Not a chakra-assisted run, either, just ordinary foot-pounding, calorie-burning, hot, sweaty, nasty running.

When he had his first episode, he ran at full tilt for as long as he was able every night for three weeks. It had whittled several inches from his waistline, which of course had been his goal back then, but there had been other, equally attractive benefits to the brutal training regimen he had adopted. He'd been starving and half-insane with obsession, his body covered with self-inflicted wounds, but once he'd recovered a little, his speed and endurance were the best they had ever been. Leaner and healthier now than he had been then, if he had maintained Asuma's training he could have been in even better condition. Instead he had overindulged, eaten too much and exercised too little.

Ino's dainty footfalls sounded on the stairs, and Chouji winced, wondering if he could fake sleep. She would be angry if she discovered him. On the other hand, being awake and having eaten nothing would spark an uncomfortable conversation, and he wasn't ready to talk about it.

Of course, his conscience reminded him sharply, he had promised to talk to them if he ever again felt inclined to skip meals or hurt himself.

He was staring pensively out the window when Ino opened the door. A heavy pause preceded her into the room, while she surveyed his untouched breakfast.

"What's the matter, Chou?" she asked finally, coming in to perch on the edge of the bed.

"Nothing that I want to talk about," he answered truthfully, still looking at the trees moving outside in the breeze.

A small hand came to rest just above his knee, and he wondered unhappily if he were carrying the extra fat in his thighs, and whether Ino could feel it if he were. He bit the end of his tongue. If he couldn't control his thoughts, he would have to confess them to his lovers. That was the deal.

As if reading his mind, Ino asked, "Is it something we _need_ to talk about?" She gave his leg a little squeeze, and he stiffened involuntarily. Frowning, she drew back and waited with her brows drawn.

He turned to face her, and looked at her for a long moment, trying to decide what to tell her. Her eyes darted over his face, gleaning what knowledge she could from his impassive countenance. She was a talented actress; no one but Chouji – or Shikamaru, if he happened to be engaged – would notice the tightness in her breath. Her fear was thick and tangible, and it made him smile ruefully, because he couldn't leave her frightened. And she would figure it out anyway.

"I found out at the hospital that I'd gained some weight," he admitted, trying to be nonchalant about it.

"I was afraid something like that had happened. Damn that Sakura! Chouj –"

"It's not Sakura's fault," he chided gently. "She was just doing her job." He leaned back into the pillows, wincing a little as the movement tugged at his chest.

He crooked a finger at her, and she came to sit on the edge of the bed. When she was settled, Chouji reached up to cup the nape of her neck in his hand, cradling her skull between his thumb and his fingers. Like magic, the tension drained from her shoulders as she relaxed into his grasp. His smile softened. This, he was good at. It still surprised him, from time to time, just _how_ good he was. A good part of his talent arose from simple observation, but it was more than that. Shikamaru had taken a stab at explaining it once. "Most people get something out of touching you," he'd mused, "they want you to be happy or calm or apologetic because it makes their life simpler if you are. You just want people to feel good for their own sakes."

Ino could manipulate anyone, and Shikamaru could rationalize anything, but Chouji knew just how his partners needed to be touched. Without a word, he could diffuse anger, release tension, soothe troubled thoughts, tease sullenness into laughter, ease embarrassment, and draw indignation to contrition. They each had their spots, but the back of the neck was almost as sensitive as an exposed chakra point for both of his lovers. He slid his thumb round to the top of Ino's spine and drew it firmly down to her shoulders.

"Mmmm," Ino moaned softly. Her eyes had fallen closed, she opened them slowly. "I will never forgive you if you need help and don't ask for it," she said, in a soft voice. "I can't stand being on the outside when you're hurting."

"I'll let you know if it gets to that point. I promised, didn't I?" He let his hand rest on her upper arm. "But until then, I just wanted you to know that I'm going to be working on losing the extra weight. I can't train, but I am going to diet – a little!" he amended, as her eyes widened and her mouth flew open to object. "I'm going to deal with this," he said firmly, "and if it gets to be overwhelming, if I feel myself starting to…" he inhaled sharply, searching for a word before Ino could interrupt him, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Chou, you've been on liquids for a week! You have a tremendous metabolism to support, and right now you need to eat." She bit her lip as her aqua gaze fell to the bandages peeking out from his robe. "You're injured, love. Dieting is the last thing you should be thinking about."

"I think my ribs will heal alright without those, don't you think?" He nodded at the bag of potato chips he'd set aside on the nightstand, forbidden for the foreseeable future. All snacks, sweets, fried foods, and barbeque were off-limits until he had gotten himself down to an acceptable weight.

"Well, yes, but…"

"But nothing. I need to take care of this. I need to _know_ that I can take care of this. Gaining too much weight has to be something I can deal with and move on, not a nightmare I can't wake up from."

"Then we'll deal with it together," Ino insisted, gesticulating animatedly. "As soon as you're better, I'll –"

"Ino, Ino, Ino," he murmured, shaking his head. She paused, and he lay back to stare at her, the porcelain perfection of her face, her aquamarine eyes and ruby lips and golden hair, remembering that she loved him, and that she was afraid for him.

"Come here," he said, pulling at her arm until she obliged him, and straddled his lap, staring down at him unhappily. "I'm not telling you this to ask for your help, sweetheart. I'm not asking for permission, either."

Her white throat flashed, swallowing tears. Chouji settled his hands around her hips, feeling the deep V they made toward to narrow waist, and squeezed gently. "I'm going to do this my way, and I'm going to do it now, not after I'm healed. I'm can't train, so even if I weren't dieting, I wouldn't need to eat as much as I usually do."

He arched a brow at her, and reached up to tap her nose lightly with one finger. "So I definitely don't need a bunch of extra calories for breakfast, just because you're worried."

Ino had the good grace to flush, but then she narrowed her eyes suddenly and rocked back on her heels. "I don't like this," she announced, glaring down at him. "I think you want to do it now _because_ you think you can get by on a lot less food than you normally do, and by the time you're back on active duty, you'll be accustomed to smaller portions."

"I _can_ get by on less than I normally do, and yes, the thought had occurred to me," he admitted. "But if I've gained weight, then I've been overeating." His stomach lurched guiltily, but he bit the inside of a cheek and went on. "I have to get that under control."

"Control," Ino said bitterly, "that's what you kept saying back then. That you were weak and useless and repugnant because you couldn't control yourself."

Chouji flinched. "I know," he said quietly. "I know that's scary for you. But it's different this time. I'm not punishing myself, Ino. At least," he amended, "That's not my intention. But I need to prove to myself that I can manage my weight responsibly. Find a happy medium between overindulging and starving to death."

"We were doing okay, weren't we?" Ino demanded. "You haven't gained that much weight – you can't have done, I would have noticed it." She laid a hand on his chest. "Are you sure it isn't just new muscle?"

He laughed. "Wouldn't that be nice?" She glared at him, and he smiled. "I'm sorry you don't like it. I'm not happy about it either. I'll be honest, Ino. It's stressful. It matters more than it should. But I'm not planning on going off the deep end over it, either. I'm coping."

"Not eating is not coping," Ino snapped.

"I'm going to eat!" he assured her. "I'm just not terribly hungry for one, and for two, you brought me way too much."

Her lower lip trembled, and she fell into his arms, mindful of his injury. Her hair caressed the exposed bits of his chest, cool as morning dew. "Please," she murmured. "Please be okay. I can't do this again. Not when Shikamaru is…" She exhaled sharply. "You know."

He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

She sighed heavily, relaxing against him, unable to resist the reassuring warmth of his embrace. "Do you think we could convince him to take a leave of absence?" she asked in a small voice, for the hundredth time.

He started to reply in the negative, and then he had a sudden thought, which he voiced only with reluctance. "Maybe… if we told him I was…" He grimaced.

She pulled away suddenly. "That might do it, Chouji. It really might. If he felt you needed watching more than the village needed him for missions, he might be convinced to stay home."

The twist on his mouth became more pronounced. "If it's for Shikamaru…"

Ino reached up to caress his cheek, turning her face up to look at him.

They stared at one another for a long moment, thinking along similar lines. Chouji's confession to Ino about his decision to diet had been made with the implicit understanding that Shikamaru wasn't to be told. They didn't trouble Shikamaru with unnecessary details, when it could be avoided. He worried himself sick over past and future decisions, upon which weighed precious, precious lives, and they tried not to burden him with anything else. All shinobi struggled with feelings like his from time to time. But Shikamaru never let them go, never accepted that his best was good enough.

"He would stay, if you asked him. If you told him you needed him here."

Chouji lay back against the headboard and closed his eyes. "Yeah."

She gave him a sympathetic smile, and pushed the food tray back to better snuggle against him. "I'll feel better, too," she admitted. The tip of one slim finger traced patterns on his chest, and she sighed. "Every time you do this, I remember that it's my fault. It's hard to deal with by myself."

"I'm sorry." Arguing with her was pointless, once her mind was made up. The blame for Chouji's ruinous relationship with food and dieting was his own, but he couldn't convince her of that.

"No. I am." She kissed him soundly and slid out of the bed. "Alright. I'm going to go finish the dishes." Pausing at the doorway, she asked, softly, "Do you want me to talk to Shikamaru? Or do you want to talk to him yourself?"

"You do it," he replied after a moment's thought. "You can spin it better, make it sound serious enough for him to stay, but not make it so urgent that it upsets him."

"He's going to be upset, regardless."

"Don't frighten him."

"I'll do my best." She pointed imperiously at his tray before swinging through the door. "Eat, Chouji."


End file.
